


Jeeves and the Mix-Up

by sexybee



Category: Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: slight Jeeves/Wooster if you want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 03:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13045320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sexybee/pseuds/sexybee
Summary: In which Gussie Fink-Nottle, Aunt Dahlia, and a bunch of shrimps conspire to ruin Bertie's day.





	Jeeves and the Mix-Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tibby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tibby/gifts).



It's funny to me how some people seem to have a sort of knack for attracting trouble. I don't mean the usual problem where some chap maybe always ends up with the wrong restaurant order or finds himself having to explain his youthful high spirits to a constable. No, I mean the sort of trouble that makes what those fellows did on the Ides of March look like a minor problem. The sort of queer mischances that make a chap come pounding on my door anxious to see the only person who could possibly sort him out. I am referring, of course, to Jeeves. He may appear to be an ordinary valet but actually he is stuffed so full of brains that good ideas practically leak from the seams. But why is it whole scores of people have gone through their life never needing his services, and yet for some reason a bally few seem to find themselves whispering in his ear every few months or so? It's dashed uncanny. Take Gussie Fink-Nottle for example. I mean here's a fellow who is so hung up on his newts that he spends the vast majority of his time tucked away in his country home up to his knees in slimy animals. You wouldn't think that he would have a chance to get into all of the the trouble that he does. And yet somehow it feels like every time I turn around, there he is, dragging me into trouble.

Suffice it to say that when said Fink-Nottle rang me that morning in October, I should have known that no matter how simple the situation first appeared, it all inevitably was going to end up in a hopeless muddle. Instead I blithely chirped hallo, as innocently unaware of looming danger as a babe at the edge of a cliff.

“Bertie,” Gussie’s voice wavered wetly down the line. “I need your assistance.”

“Of course, old chap, of course. What can I help you with?”

“Well, Madeleine and I have had the most frightful row. She says I never do anything for her, I’m always paying more attention to my hobbies.”

“Say no more. You find yourself in need of romantic advice and immediately thought of B. Wooster. Lay your troubles out for me, my boy.”

He sounded even more glum. “It’s not that. I’m afraid she’s left me for good. I doubt even Jeeves would be able to help. No, it's my newts.They’re looking peaky.” I have no idea how you can tell when a newt is looking peaky, as, on the few occasions when Gussie has forced his specimens upon my attention, none of the lot looked exceptionally energetic to me, but I trust Gussie to know his stuff when it comes to amphibians.

“Such a shame,” I said, trying my best to blend in my tone a soupcon of man’s fellow feeling for man and a hearty helping of brusqueness that would convey my absolute lack of desire to hear all the messy details. In this I was not very successful, as I had to listen to a twenty minute recitation of the poor dears lack of appetite, lethargy, general listlessness, and all the possible causes for such ill health. Finally I managed to steer him back to the crux of the matter, viz. what the bloody things had to do with me.

Apparently he had decided that the only thing which would tempt them out of their fit of sullens was a special diet of rare aquatic delicacies.  According to him it would leave his newts full of vim and vigor with a new zest for life. But they could only be found from one particular breeder in Onslow, who was about to leave for a trip, but would be briefly in London this Friday morning as he switched trains, so Gussie needed to  store them at my flat temporarily before he arrived to bring them back to his ailing newts post-haste.

Now you must admit that this simple request does not _sound_ like an invitation to trouble, but as I remarked in the beginning, somehow with Gussie, these things always happen. One minute you’re floating along all boops-a-daisy, and the next minute Fink-Nottle appears and you find yourself neck deep in the muck.

My next presage of disaster came in the form of a visit from an aunt.  This was not, as you might have gathered from the preceding statement, my Aunt Agatha, fiend in human form, but my Aunt Dahlia, she of the culinary genius Anatole. It was about said genius that she was now despairing. “Jeeves, Jeeves, I need you!” she cried out, waving her arms about. “It’s the most dreadful thing.”

“Yes, madam?” answered Jeeves, removing her wrap, and ushering her into a seat. He conjured up a drink from somewhere like a particularly well-mannered genie. I don’t know how he does it.

She moaned. “It’s Anatole. He’s… he’s… he’s _homesick._ ”

I must say I hadn’t been expecting that. What with the general weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, I had rather expected a more serious concern . “What, he wants a holiday back with the old home folks? Not my idea of a jolly time, but different tastes and all that.  I’m sure Uncle Tom can put up with a little plain fare for two weeks. Or perhaps you could go on a holiday of your own.” I started to warm to the theme. “I know this lovely place in Cannes…”

Aunt Dahlia snorted. “I might have known that you would be an idiot about this. Think, Bertram, for once in your life. Anatole misses France. Anatole goes back to France. Anatole realizes how much he has missed his life there and moves back to France. And if Anatole is in _France_ , then he is not _here_ cooking for _us_ . And if he is not cooking for us, Tom is not eating his cooking. And if Tom is not eating Anatole’s food, then he’s not forking over the cash for _Milady’s Boudoir_.” She punctuated each of these statements with a slosh of the glass that had me quite apprehensive for my carpet. “I cannot have that happen. Jeeves, I’m begging you. Tell me you know how to fix this.”

Jeeves coughed deprecatingly. “Well, madam, I do happen to have one small idea. Perhaps instead of sending Mohammed to the mountain, the mountain could come to Mohammed.”

“Do you mean--?” she cried.

“I do happen to have some contacts in the marketplaces who specialize in hard-to-find French delicacies. A taste of home might be all he needs to calm his longings. Some _langoustines_ , some truffles and _pate de foie gras_.  I can procure the necessary supplies for a feast fit for a gourmand and personally oversee the preparations, so that it may be a surprise.”

She drained the glass in triumph. “Jeeves, you remarkable man. Whatever are you doing with this young ass? If you should come to your senses , you will always be welcomed at Brinkley Court.”

“Thank you, madam, I am quite satisfied with my current arrangement.” He ushered her out, and that, so I thought, was that.

I feel like I can be forgiven for thinking that my participation was now at an end.  But alas, it was not to be so.

The dreadful day in question dawned sunny and clear without any of the dark clouds or wailing winds so beloved of novelists to indicate a foreboding atmosphere. I’m not saying that there were actually sparrows twittering around my window, but it was the sort of glorious autumn day that could inspire some really passionate chirping. I was lounging at my ease, stomach comfortably full of a rasher of b. and two e.’s, a perfectly brewed cup of tea in my hand, contemplating whether I quite felt like a visit to the drones Club that night. These musings were unpleasantly interrupted by a knock at the door.

There was a small, bespectacled man bearing a large, twine wrapped parcel.  “I have some stuff for Mister Wooster. Shrimps, sea urchins, some frogs and stuff. Are you Mister Wooster?” He eyed me suspiciously as if I might have the real Bertram Wooster tied up behind the sofa so as to get me hands on his parcels. It was dashed unnerving. I quite forgot for a moment why there might be a seafood delivery for me. Then I finally remembered Gussie’s request.

“Oh. Ah. Of course. This way, please.” I led him to the kitchen, that skeptical squint fixed on the small of my back like a gangster’s pistol.  After carefully disposing of his charge on a tea towel next to the sink, he turned about and marched out. Apparently they make these shrimp growers out of sterner stuff than newt fanciers.

No sooner had I settled the old bod back ‘pon the couch of ease than the blasted doorbell pealed again. If it was the squinty-eyed chap, come back to demand proof of my identity, I was going to have him summarily ejected.  But this time it was a dark man with an untidy beard who stood there. “Yes?” I asked, attempting my best voice of cool disdain. I’d be dashed if another delivery person gave me the side-eye me again. “Package for you,” he muttered, and thrust it into my hands, disappearing back down the way almost before I had fully grasped it.  “It’s the food you requested,” he shot back over his shoulder as he sped away.  Ah, this must be the French delicacies that Jeeves had ordered to surprise Anatole with.  I bunged them into the kitchen with a note for Jeeves. .

This time it was Gussie. “Hullo, Fink-Nottle, come to fetch your shrimps?” He assented, but with a look of so much woe, that I lost much of my irritation. Some chaps, when they are feeling down, manage to look dignified and sorrowful, like a knight who has just got it in the back, but feels he must fight on until his dying breath.  Gussie was not one of those chaps.  He looked more like a dog I once saw who had been sprayed by a skunk and then bathed in a series of increasingly vile floral concoctions that merely added to the problem. It was not a look that spoke of dignity or determination. He looked in a word, pathetic. “What, not still fighting with Madeleine are you?”

“It’s worse than that. The engagement is off. We’re done.”

“Oh. I say. Not really.” This was bad news for both us. I had once accidentally found myself engaged to Madeleine, and I now had this hideous vision of her running back to me, claiming that she knew all along that I was the one she wanted. Now don’t get wrong, Madeleine is a very nice girl, but if ever B. Wooster trips down the aisle in connubial bliss, it will _not_ be with someone who once said that every moment with me was “an iridescent bubble fresh-blown from the lips of fancy.” I mean, can you imagine hearing that over toast and eggs every morning?

“You know, I’ve had some thoughts about  that, and I think I’ve hit on rather a good plan for how to get you two kids back together.”

“Did Jeeves have an idea?” I was rather offended by the eagerness in his voice.  Jeeves is not the only person who can come up with good ideas.

“No, no, this is all me.  And I have to say--”

“Must you, Bertie? Madeleine is gone now. I have glimpsed Heaven and been denied. And, now, ironically, my newts, the very things which drove her away, are possibly leaving me as well. I fear that even these delicacies will not be enough to tempt their appetites back to health.”

Well. What do you say in the face of that? I said the only thing I could. “Oh. Um. Er. Quite.” and fetched his package. He gave me a forlorn goodbye as he trudged away.

 Feeling rather put off by all these visitors, I stretched out with a comic novel and soon found my eyelids growing heavy. I was roused from my impromptu nap by Jeeves finally making his way back from the shops. “Hullo there, Jeeves. I must say, you missed out on all the excitement today. We had people popping in and out of the flat like it was Waterloo Station. I had forgotten that Gussie wanted me to hold on to a package for him. Did you find all of your fancy French treats?”

“I believe that with the items already delivered I should be able to satisfy Mrs. Travers’s request, yes.”

“Oh yes, your stuff came as well. Nervy chap. Practically bolted out of here. It’s in the kitchen.”

He disappeared into the kitchen with his bottles and packages, then popped back out just a minute later. “Sir, did Mr. Fink-Nottle say what was in the package for him? Perhaps some sort of aquatic specimens for his amphibians?”

I blinked for a bit. Was Jeeves breaking out in some sort of psychic powers? “Bang on, Jeeves. Special tasty tidbits for his ailing newts, guaranteed to buck them up. How on earth did you know?”

“Because, sir, Mr. Fink-Nottle appears to have left with the wrong package. The Brie, the _foie gras_ , the _langoustines_ are all gone.”

I stared at him. “You can’t be serious. The delivery man said it was shrimps. You didn’t say anything at all about shrimps. Not now, not when you were discussing the menu with Aunt Dahlia. I was there and heard it all, Jeeves, and shrimp was decidedly not on the menu.”

“The _langoustines_ , sir.”

“The what?”

“The _langoustines_ , sir. Also known as _scampi_. They are, precisely speaking, a type of lobster, but due to their close resemblance in color and shape, are often mistaken by those ignorant of their taxonomic classification for a type of large shrimp.”

I turned a goggle-eyed stare on him. “Do you mean to say that Gussie has taken home with him a package full of the finest gourmet delicacies, and you are left to feed Anatole with a box full of … what exactly do newts eat?”

He cleared his throat. “In this case sir, it appears to be some type of shrimp, a few small fish and sea urchins, and some snails. I believe there may also be some plant materiel of some type lining the bottom.”

“So you’re saying that you’re going to show up at Brinkley Court with a box full of stuff that gets washed up on the tide in order to cook a French feast so sublime that Anatole will lose all desire to return to his homeland? This is disastrous. An utter disaster. We must hunt down that Fink-Nottle and get your box back post-haste.”

Jeeves coughed slightly. “Actually sir, I may have one or two small ideas from some things that I have recently learned about…”

I know how it is when Jeeves gets one of his ideas in his brain. They’re usually bang-up ideas, but they take forever. There are times for discussion, and then there are times for action. I stood firm. “There is absolutely no time for any of your blasted ideas right now, Jeeves! We simply must get that box back. You go to Brinkley Court and stall them somehow. I shall take the the motorcar and get that package back from Gussie. We simply must hurry.”

“Very good, sir,” said Jeeves and handed me my overcoat and hat. “I will meet you at Brinkley Court.”

By the time I made it all the way to Gussie’s house I had worked myself up into quite a state. Gussie’s blasted bad luck was to blame for everything going pear-shaped. Like I said in the beginning, I should have known that anything to do with him would land me with a heap of trouble.

When he finally toddled up to where I was waiting, however, I was in such a fret that I was in no mood for niceties like hanging about to point out all the ways in which this latest brouhaha was his fault. “Gussie, I need you to give me that box _right now!_ I’ll explain later.” I grabbed for his arm.

“What on earth are you talking about?” He clutched the parcel tighter, and I tugged more vigorously. “Stop that!” he shouted.

“No,” I shouted back,“It’s mine!”

“Never!” he shrieked, by now completely caught up in the argument. I saw his eyes fly up to focus on someone behind me, gave a particularly hard yank, and unfortunately for me- he reflexively loosened his grip. I ended up sprawling backwards in the dirt, and the parcel fell out of my hands to land next to the feet of whoever Gussie had just seen behind me. I looked up and internally groaned. Of course, I should have known. It was Madeleine Bassett.

“Bertie! Gussie! Were you fighting? Over me? Oh, to think that I should come between your years of friendship! I feel like such a wretch.” She stooped to pick up the package, which had come partially unwrapped in the tussle. “What’s this?” Madeleine peeked inside. Gussie made a strangled noise. “Gussie, did you buy this?” At his shamefaced nod she burst into tears and flung her arms around his neck. “Oh you sweet, sweet man. All this for me? Will you ever forgive me?”

Gussie, bewildered but ecstatic, submitted to having his face covered with tearful kisses.  “Dear Bertie, I hate to have to break your heart again, but Jeeves called to let me know that you were rushing down here to try to confront Bertie. And that’s when I realized how deep my feelings for him truly ran. I realize how much this must hurt you, but my heart belongs with Gussie.  And the fact that he went to all the effort and expense to get me my favorite French foods? Oh, how could I have ever wronged you, dear Gussie, by saying that you cared more for your newts than for me.”

I maintain that although no one has ever said that Bertram Wooster is a genius, I do not always have to be hit over the head to know when to keep my tongue still.  If Madeleine and Gussie were back on the mend, then there was absolutely no chance of her deciding to substitute my neck in the noose. Therefore I contrived to look suitably heartbroken while I edged unobtrusively out of the way.

As I motored my way over to Brinkley Court, though, the temporary euphoria of realizing that my mornings would remain safely free of poetical observations evaporated as I realized that I had not actually succeeded in my aim of retrieving that blasted parcel and now Aunt Dahlia would have nothing to serve Anatole. Was it something like this that had turned Aunt Agatha into the slavering hell beast she was currently? Was I going to be forced to spend the rest of my days an exile?

It was with a heavy heart that I pulled into the drive at Brinkley Court. My head was so full of visions of calamity that it was almost a shock to find it still standing in one piece. I stood frozen before the doorr for a long minute considering whether it wouldn't be better to just turn around and get to packing immediately, you know, what with something or other being the better part of valor. But while I stood there dithering, Aunt Dahlia burst out.  “Bertie!” she shrieked.

“I can explain!” I called hoarsely.

“Nonsense,” she snapped, “you’ve never explained anything in your life. Besides, I believe there is no way for anyone to explain Jeeves. He's simply uncanny, that dear man. I don't know how he does it!” Then she amazed me by squeezing me in a hug.

I gaped at her. “Oh, er. Well, you know Jeeves.”

Just then the man in question walked up. “I believe everything has been taken care of, madam. If I may?” He managed to disentangle her from my neck, constrain her demonstrations of affection to a respectful pressing of his hands, and get the hamper stowed, while I babbled our goodbyes.

It was only when we had Brinkley Court safely in our rearview mirror that I was finally able to ask just what had happened there.

“Well, sir, after seeing what was available in young Mr. Fink-Nottle’s basket, I decided the plan was not actually unsalvageable. So I whipped together a rustic _bouillabaisse_ , some _escargot_ and _oursin de mer_ , and a few _cuisses de grenouille_. It was, Anatole assured me, exactly as he remembered his mother's cooking.”

“I say, wouldn't that make him more homesick, not less?”

Jeeves permitted himself a small smile. “I should perhaps mention that after speaking with some of the other servants at Brinkley Court, I became aware that Anatole may have had a particularly contentious relationship with his mother.”

I stared at him in pure admiration. “I don't know how you do these things. And Madeleine Bassett?”

“I may have heard some things that Mr. Fink-Nottle was saying on the telephone the other day. His voice was rather loud. And then when the unfortunate mixup happened it occured to me that Miss Bassett would certainly be impressed by the thought of such extravagance expended on her.”

“Jeeves, you're a marvel. I don't know why you stick with me.”

His eyes, slightly crinkled, traveled over me. “Well, sir,” he said in a warm, low tone, “there are certain considerations.”


End file.
